


monsters are always hungry, darling

by ceserabeau



Category: Hannibal (TV), Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:53:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8298410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: The cage is wrong, Arthur thinks. The drawing desk, the bookshelf, the wood panelling and ornate fireplace. A beast like Eames needs bars.





	

The cage is wrong, Arthur thinks as he watches Eames lounging in the chair, reading quietly. The drawing desk, the bookshelf, the wood panelling and ornate fireplace; a beast like Eames needs bars.

He looks the same, like the months here haven’t affected him at all: hair slicked back, face clean shaven, although the clothes are different. No sharp suits here, just a bland white uniform, but Eames wears it just as well, well enough that Arthur feels the familiar ache in his gut.

“Are you just going to watch me all day, Arthur?”

“Hello, Doctor Eames.”

Eames doesn’t look up, just turns the page. “I wasn’t sure you’d come to visit.”

He seems indifferent, but his eyes are moving far too slowly across the page. Eames has always been a good actor, but Arthur has seen behind the curtain; he knows Eames’ ticks now.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he says.

Eames’ eyebrow creeps up: surprise, disbelief. “Gloating doesn’t become you, Arthur.”

“It’s very enjoyable.”

And finally Eames looks up, catches him in that sharp gaze, before it slides to the thick file under Arthur’s arm. “And yet it’s not the real reason you’re here.”

He’s trying to look uninterested, but Arthur can tell from the way his hands are clenching around his book that he’s hooked, so bored of his fifteen by fifteen square feet that he’s shaking with it. It’s almost too easy.

“I need your help, Doctor.”

Eames gives him a look that borders on hurt. “Doctor? I thought we were past that.”

Arthur holds back his snarl. He knows what Eames is fishing for: he wants to see Arthur’s cracks, dig his fingers into them and tear him apart. “I’d rather not get too personal this time.”

“What a shame,” Eames says, and his lips curl in amusement. “I did so enjoy being _personal_ with you.”

It makes Arthur shiver. He knows what Eames is talking about: the lines they crossed, Eames’ hands and mouth of his skin, Eames moving in him, Eames’ voice whispering like poison in his ear.

“I’ve come about Chicago and Buffalo,” he says so he doesn’t scream. “You’ve read about what’s happening?”

“They let me have the paper here, yes. All very interesting.” Eames' fingers play with the book, distracted, like he’s turning the case over in his mind. “You want to know how he’s choosing them.”

Arthur nods. “I’d like to borrow your imagination, if you’ll let me.”

He lays the folder carefully in the tray, an enticement, but Eames doesn’t move, just keeps staring at him, pinning him like a butterfly to a board.

“And what do I get out of this? I can’t imagine there’ll be any negotiations over my sentence. So tell me, Arthur, what’s in it for me?”

He’s been expecting this, has spent hours agonising over what Eames would want, would ask for: a shorter sentence, a different cell, maybe even his freedom entirely. But Eames has never been a man to desire trivial things: he wants what he’s always wanted: Arthur.

“The pleasure of my company.”

Eames’ face is surprised – that Arthur could know him so well, or that he’d offer himself up willingly, let Eames get that close again. “How could I ever say no to that?” he says delightedly. Then he shifts, stiffens, puts his book down. “Now, now, none of that. No disgust.”

Arthur holds in his flinch. _Stupid_ , to not keep his emotions locked down, not when Eames can read him so well. Giving Eames an inch is how this all happened in the first place.

“It’s not disgust,” he clarifies. “It’s dislike.”

“And what,” Eames asks, “Have I done to deserve that?”

So many things: the blood, the bodies, the mind games, three months of Arthur’s life in a cell. But Eames wants to get under his skin, make him dance like he knows he can, and Arthur’s willing to let it show if it gets him what he wants.

“Don’t _patronise_ me,” he snaps. “Every murder feels like one I’m guilty of.”

“Because you couldn’t catch me in time.” Slowly Eames stands and stalks towards the glass. “No need for that, darling. It’s not your fault. You were the least incompetent of all of them - at least towards the end.”

Oh, the end, when Arthur could see what Eames was but still couldn’t believe it, when he allowed Eames to twist him up tighter and tighter until he was hovering on the edge of giving up, of giving in.

“We caught you,” Arthur reminds him. “In the end.”

Eames has crept up on him and now they’re close, too close. He can see the rise and fall of Eames’ chest, the hair peeking out from the neck of his shirt, the beginnings of shadow around his jaw. And the eyes, those sharp, dangerous eyes, seeing everything, every part of him.

“You did well,” Eames acknowledges, and Arthur tries not to preen at the praise. “The others though – such a shame about what happened to poor Ariadne.”

“What _you_ did to poor Ariadne, you mean.”

Eames hooks his fingers through the holes in the glass; Arthur remembers the feel of them against his face: once gentle. “I would never do that to you.”

No, he’d do something else. Tear Arthur up and spit him out, leave him in pieces. Or worse: twist him around, leave him alive, make Arthur like him.

Arthur smiles. In the glass his reflection already looks monstrous. “You might make a meal of me yet, Eames. But not today.”

Eames nods, smiles back, unreadable. “Not today,” he agrees, and reaches for the file.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken's _Snow and Dirty Rain_
> 
> Monsters are always hungry, darling,  
> and they're only a few steps behind you, finding  
> the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't  
> stitched up quite right, the place they could almost  
> slip right through if the skin wasn't trying to  
> keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side  
> of the theater where the curtain keeps rising.


End file.
